


empty skies aching blue

by TinyBeautifulTales (MikeandHarveyTime)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Self Harm, Sexy Times, swearing sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:12:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikeandHarveyTime/pseuds/TinyBeautifulTales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the first time they talk about it, harry is sixteen and louis is eighteen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	empty skies aching blue

the first time they talk about it, harry is sixteen and louis is eighteen.

 

harry is all bony knees and sharp elbows and the artless splay of his legs as he reclines in louis’ bed. there are dimples like craters lodged in his cheeks when he smiles, those rare, radiant grins, but today, he isn’t anything but sad. his bouncy mess of curls form a brown puddle on louis’ chest as he pieces his fingers through the soft waves.

 

“are you alright, love?” louis asks. harry is so young, so painfully young, and louis privately thinks that everyone is probably in love with him. even the people who claim to hate him are just frustrated that they can see how beautiful he is on the inside and the outside and they can’t touch that. they can’t claim it or have it, and they don’t understand beauty like that, genuine honesty and goodness.

 

harry nods meekly where his head is nuzzled into louis’ neck.

 

louis wonders if there are tears choking him or if he’s just feeling sad, but he doesn’t move from his spot. harry can listen to his heartbeat, can breathe, and they can stay here forever, if that’s what he needs. absentmindedly, louis whispers, “there’s no point in letting them hur—”

 

“what if we just left?”

 

“left where, love? you’ve gotta finish school or your mum’ll—”

 

“left england?” harry’s low, gravelly voice resonates inside of louis’ chest.

 

louis laughs quietly. these are the words of a sad boy. he doesn’t really mean it because he isn’t even making any move out of louis’ arms. if he can’t do that, there’s no way he can leave england, and harry cares about his family and the older women who he works with at the bakery too much to disappear. he’s a beautiful, lovely boy, and louis squeezes him, says, “sure, babe. but first, just finish college, yeah?”

 

 ***

 

the second time they talk about it, harry has just graduated college, and louis has finished an exhausting, puzzling first year at university.

 

it was harder that he thought it could possibly be: being away from his family and his girls and _harry._ when he left, there was this awkward, gangly, pretty boy with open, green eyes and a dimpled grin. now, there is a man.

 

his dad left this past year, and harry called louis more nights than not, for a while. he’d cry into the phone, heartbreaking sobs, and louis would shush him. harry, after his dad skipped out, took on a lot of responsibility. he has lilac eyelids and bruises the color of cigarette smoke in the hollow of his cheek and eye socket, in the gentle basin formed there. his pink lips are like flowers, like peonies, bright and open. louis used to think of him in all of these childish, primary, simple colors, but now he’s like a muddled, abandoned pallet of diluted colors. beautiful and sad.

 

again, they are laid in louis’ bed. harry’s got his arms spread eagled, louis curled into one, when he says, “i just want to go.”

 

“where?” louis tries his hardest not to turn into harry’s neck and measure the pulse there with his lips.

 

“away. anywhere.”

 

“babe—”

 

“what’ve we got to lose?” harry turns over to face him, strong arm still under louis’ head. with a furrow between his eyes, he says, “do you really want to go back to uni?”

 

“hazza—”

 

“i just want to go,” his voices goes hoarse, breaks.

 

louis, attempting to remember the boundaries of being _friends, friends, friends,_ reaches up to brush a stray curl off of harry’s forehead. he’s almost breakable: all too pale skin and flushing rosy cheeks and bitten lips. he makes louis ache, “why?”

 

tears streak down his cheeks and dampen the pillow under his face, “’m not strong enough, lou. ‘m not—”

 

“haz, babe.” louis’ fingers slip down his forehead, land softly on the fever warm, reddened skin of his lips, “they can’t hurt you anymore. not those boys or your dad. they’re words, babe, and they’re not true, yeah? you know that.”

 

“lou—”

 

“oh, love.” using his smaller size to his advantage, he curls up under harry’s chin. there is a hollow there, exactly his shape, and he knows that his heart shouldn’t be fluttering so madly out of control, his lips pressed tightly together to staunch the urge to just _kiss._ they are friends. they are nothing more than just good, good friends. besides, harry doesn’t need any more complications in his life right now. and louis is, without a doubt, a complication. he needs support, comfort.

 

“would you come with me? just the two of us?” but it comes out low and intimate, his vowels too long.

 

louis, thinking nothing of it, just a silly phase, whispers, “’course, hazza.”

 

***

 

he has been back at university for two months, right smack in the middle of october, when there is a knock on his door at way too late in the night to be innocent. louis, aware of how light a sleeper nick is, stumbles to the door, half asleep, a blanket yanked warmly around his bare shoulders.

 

“lou?” harry stands on the doorstep, beautiful in shades of grey and black.

 

it takes louis a minute to process the worn, sad look on harry’s face, the dark leather jacket with the absurd fur collar popped over his pale cheeks and hollowed eyes.

 

his voice comes out rough, “what are you doing here, haz?” he hasn’t quite told anyone about the boy named nick who was his roommate, but has become the boy fucking him so hard he carries the self loathing around all day like a canker. louis is no good at being alone though, and nick is better than nothing.

 

“can we go?” harry whispers, voice desperate.

 

“’s the middle of the night.”

 

“please, lou.”

 

and, really, that does it. even if he wasn’t hopelessly in love with the tragic, shadowed boy standing on his doorstep, the way his voice cracks around louis’ name would do him in. before harry can say anything else, louis is tugging the taller boy into his arms. they clutch each other in the door of his and nick’s apartment, harry breathing loud and harsh into his ear like he’s crying, louis mouthing along his forehead, whispering sweet, calming things, and harry can’t say anything. he presses his cold fingers into the warm, warm golden place where louis’ hip bones curve.

 

“give me a mo,” louis whispers into the pale, fragrant place where Harry’s neck and shoulder meet.

 

“’course.”

 

it is with a sense of complete removal from his own life that louis leaves harry standing in the doorway as he runs back to the bedroom. nick, sprawled limbs and mouth hanging open as he breathes heavily, hasn’t stirred, thank god, and he doesn’t, even when louis drops the blanket on the floor. he shoves his legs into sweats, yanks on a beanie to cover his obvious sex hair, tugs on a maroon tee shirt, and pulls his books out of his backpack, making room for his wallet and phone and toiletries. it should probably scare him, how willing he is to drop his life for harry, but if he’s being honest with himself, it’s always been this way. he’s always been willing to change things, make things better or worse for himself, if it meant making harry happy. and louis hates uni: he has no future career plans, no real concrete future at all beyond fucking around with nick.

 

louis isn’t very careful or thorough about the clothes he tosses into his black duffel. the cracked, burnt leather stretches to accommodate his wardrobe. then, a last minute addition: a picture of his mum and sisters in between sweatshirts. he tells himself, silently and repeatedly, that he’ll call when he knows where they’re headed. he will.

 

louis tiptoes out into the messy, wooden floored living room and shrugs on the olive green jacket that harry hands him wordlessly. the taller boy reaches forward to touch louis’ cheek in a silent _thank you,_ and louis thinks about how rash, how stupid he’s being. how hard his heart is beating with the awareness of harry’s touch.

 

“off we go?”

 

harry opens the door for him.

 

***

 

they land in paris around lunchtime the next day. in the too bright sunlight, harry squints his wide, veined eyes, sleepless and exhausted. he is lackluster, merely follows after lou as they climb into a taxi and ride to a part of town where the hotels are smaller, the people less obviously tourists. louis thinks that his mum’s flat is around here, hidden under the throbbing, never ending glitter of paris. but he can’t call her. jay isn’t going to be happy with this information, and how can he bear to let her down? louis hands the driver some euros, thanks him in rusty french, and they head inside.

 

the room, which louis secures for a week, is small. there is a single, white bed right in the middle, across from an armoire, cozy bathroom, two windows. nothing special, but it’ll do.

 

he drops his suitcase against the wall by the door and is walking to the balcony when louis stops. everything rushes at him from all sides, sudden and demanding and real. louis just left his entire life, his not quite boyfriend, his dorm and his mum and his sisters, and panic crashes over him in waves. breath won’t pass into his lungs. his heart patters too quickly. the room spins haltingly.

 

harry’s strong fingers grip his biceps, “lou?”

 

it takes him a moment to focus, to center himself in this small, hotel room with this exhausted, damaged boy holding him too tightly. he raises his eyes to harry’s.

 

“are you—”

 

“i’m just gonna shower, babe. you look tired.” louis presses a shaking hand to harry’s cheek reassuringly. _friends, friends, friends, “_ get some sleep, yeah?”

 

harry, eyes looking over louis from his head to his toes, nods. he is like a lazy kitten as he clumsily toes off his shoes and collapses heavily into the center of the mattress, probably making the entire thing smell like him: clean and spicy and sandalwood. louis feels resentment, pulsing and liquid, rise in his chest as he walks into the bathroom.

 

the shower is too small, too hot, but it feels good. steam clears his head, makes everything feel less immediate. how could anything be terrible when hot water is cascading down his torso, washing the stress from his back, seeping the sweat from his pores? he knows that the way he feels about harry, the love and the hate, will eventually have to be dealt with but for the moment, he is content to allow harry space to figure himself out.

 

as a friend, it is his job to give harry the time he needs and be present to talk to him, if need be. he justifies what he’s done that way, prays the people in his life (nick, his mum, his girls) will see it that way too.

 

***

 

for the first few days, they don’t do much of anything. harry sleeps a lot, eats not enough, and goes on long walks to places that louis doesn’t ask about. when he comes back to the hotel room, inevitably exhausted, he collapses on his side of the bed and doesn’t say anything. occasionally, he curls a loose cuff of fingers around louis’ wrist or ankle, presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, but the touches are merely comfort and gratitude.

 

louis knows that.

 

on wednesday, rainy and cold, harry stays in. they linger in the bed together. half way thru a version of grease that louis only partially understands due to not paying much attention to it, harry rearranges himself. his large hands rest low on louis’ spine. the older boy goes limp, like a doll, not moving, not breathing, as harry thumbs into the valleys of the dimples low on his back, harry’s lips fever hot on his collarbone. harry is long, lanky, boney, but louis figures he can give him this much. he can do this. louis, hesitantly, rubs his fingers over harry’s scalp, feeling as harry purrs, back bowing like a cat.

 

“my dad, before he left, used to get so, so mad,” harry’s voice is slow like morning sunlight, “some times, he’d—he’d hit me, you know?”

 

louis doesn’t know anything about abuse. his mum has always been gentle and constant, supportive in the way that all mothers are supposed to be.

 

“i used to get so desperate for someone to talk to, but i didn’t want to, like, burde—”

 

“harry, you aren’t a burden.” louis whispers. he scratches lightly, feather soft, over the waves of harry’s hair, feeling a swell of affection that threatens to choke him.

 

harry admits, “my mum used to just cry,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal, “and she’d come into my room and, like, apologize for my dad, but she was getting hurt too.”

 

“why didn’t you say anything?” the rain patters against the window like a reminder that reality, outside of this room, outside of the missed texts from nick, the unanswered calls from his mum, does exist. “hazza.”

 

“because no one’s got time for some angsty teenager, yeah?”

 

“your dad was hurting you, harry!”

 

“’m just fine, lou. ‘m here now with you, and everything is fine.”

 

“then why did we leave england?” louis doesn’t mean to say it. it’s just. it’s, like, there’s this ever changing seesaw rocking back and forth inside of his body. one part of him, the part that coddled a younger harry, loves this boy so, so much, just wants to see him okay and protected. but there’s this part of him that he recognizes as hardened from the real world, from getting fucked and left and falling in lust with men who him _twink_ and _faggot boy,_ that just wants to tell harry to buck up and go to university and avoid holmes chapel, if he must.

 

wide, green eyes frown up at him, “if you didn’t want to come with me, you could’ve told me no.”

 

“haz—” louis fights the frustration bleeding into his tone.

 

“you should’ve said no.” harry retracts his arms, his fingers, furrows his brow as he rolls to his side of the bed.

 

louis’ body is cold, bereft with the touch of harry’s large hands over his waist. all at once, he is battling the feelings of resentment and anger and fear that creep into his mind when he thinks of everything he has done for this boy and how little harry seems to realize that, “i want to be here with you.”

 

“fuck that,” harry is standing up, pulling on his shoes, “i can recognize when people don’t want me now.”

 

“harry, stop it.” louis misses his arm when he goes to grab for it, “i was just having a mo. i miss my mum.”

 

“you don’t think i miss my mum?” harry whips around, angry and eyes too glassy. “fuck, lou. you don’t think i miss my entire life?”

 

“i know you—”

 

“you don’t know anything about me!” harry’s voice, usually low and soft, intimate, has escalated, high and rough and sad. there are red circles around his eyes, bags under them, “you weren’t there when i fucking needed you, lou! you were too busy with what’s his arse. whoever was in your bed that night.”

 

“that isn’t fair.” louis whispers, under harry’s yelling. “it’s not—”

 

“you weren’t there for me!” harry growls, “i wanted someone who could—”

 

louis stands on the bed, yells just as loudly as harry, “i wanted someone who could love me back!”

 

harry falls silent.

 

“i couldn’t keep, just. i kept giving bits of myself to people and getting shit on.” his small shoulders bounce up in a jaunty shrug before he collapses back onto the bed. arms down at his sides, legs splayed, never as beautiful as harry. “i’m sor—”

 

“don’t apologize,” harry mumbles, “’s not like anyone means it anyway.”

 

without even a glance back at louis’ defeated, bent form, harry is walking out the door. collapsing, falling over like an empty house after a particularly harsh bashing from a storm, windows blown in, doors bent off their hinges, louis begins to cry into his hands. what did he do? how did he get himself stuck into this situation with the boy that he loves so much? why does he keep taking all of the things in his life and fucking them up?

 

he feels, like a second heart beating in his chest, the sharp pang of longing for his mum’s arms.

 

***

 

harry climbs back into their bed at around four in the morning, hues of golden yellow and ruby red illuminating the panes of his cheekbones and his darkened, fluttering eyelashes as they fall over his deep green eyes. his fingers are cold when they curl around louis’ wrist, thumb pressed firmly to his pulse. the smaller boy, breath hitching as he meets harry’s eyes with his own gritty ones, wonders if harry can feel the truth of his feelings about this entire ordeal hammering along with his heartbeat. almost like harry can hear his thoughts, he bends himself into a shape that is easier for louis to hold: back bent, fingers low on his spine.

 

louis breathes in, shaky and too deep.

 

harry smells like something light, something feminine and alcohol. he’s got the scent of vodka heavy on his breath as he noses along the goosebumped skin of louis’ neck, cold and overheated mingling headily. along the ridges of his pale, pale spine, like the waves on the sea after a rough day, are purpling bruises, nail marks.

 

“haz?”

 

“don’t wanna talk about it,” harry whispers, lips following in the wake of his nose.

 

“stop,” but it comes out breathy, not at all convincing. louis’ body betrays him as his hands tighten on harry’s hips, his neck falling back, “stop.”

 

harry kisses over his chin.

 

there is woman somewhere, in some club that harry fucked. she’s probably lithe and beautiful like he is, probably moans like she took lessons from a porn star, arches her back like she was born to have her spine bent that way. this thing, this sudden closeness, isn’t about love or feelings, this is alcohol and anger and making up for their fight without talking about it, because harry knows now. disgust and loathing meet, mingle, and he is jerking roughly out of harry’s grasp, locking himself in the bathroom, his breathing so, so loud in the tiny space.

 

harry is gone when he leaves the safety of the shower the next morning.

 

***

 

they settle into a kind of routine for their remaining time in paris: harry gone all day, coming back late at night smelling of vodka or worse and perfume, louis pretending he knows what the fuck he’s doing. before all of this, he’d thought they were getting away to give harry an opportunity to figure himself out. now, he recognizes what they’re really doing.

 

harry is searching for closeness in a way that doesn’t require him to give any of himself up. he wants love and warmth without the added gamble of himself, so harry fucks around with women who are older. they were spicy perfume and smile demurely, coax the bartender into giving harry enough alcohol to make him loose, pliant, honey slow and burberry rich, press kisses into the fragile places on his body: the vulnerable swoop of his ribcage, the basket of his lean hips, the ridges of his collarbones and shoulder blades. louis, even though he’s never been with harry intimately, knows that he must be beautiful and strong and sad, entire body one big ripple of lithe, of smooth. his heartbreak only makes him more desirable.

 

still, they don’t talk about their fight or what was said, the words lingering so tangibly between them when harry, in the early morning, crawls back into the bed, naked and remorseful and drunk, presses kisses to louis’ body like a balm against the resentment in his own chest, the throbbing of his own guilt, his own inability to fix everything that is broken about harry, about them. louis dwells on the knowledge of harry being abused, lets it fester and swell until it has become a living, breathing thing between them. sometimes, he pretends that the bruises from those older women are from harry’s dad, des.

 

when their stay in paris is finally up, harry walks them to the airport, goes up the counter and says _two for prague, please._

_***_

at the airport, harry falls asleep, close mouthed and warm, on louis’ shoulder. their pinkies rest, linked, on their thighs, and as much as louis wants to hate him, wants to be able to quell the love in his chest, he can’t do either of those things. his ribs ache with the knowledge of how horribly he just wants all of this to change, all of this to just be done.

 

harry’s lips are obscene, parted so nearly to his face that louis would only need to—

 

_“wanna fuck tonight, lou lou?” nick breathes, low and taunting, into the space behind his ear. “gonna beg, baby? gonna bend over our couch and let me open you up?”_

_louis can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move._

_“want me to fuck you blindfolded so you can pre—”_

harry snuffles sleepily, lips light as gossamer wings against louis’ neck.

 

***

 

in prague, harry introduces louis to a woman who goes by the name of cazza. they giggle against each other’s shoulders, sweet and spun sugar fragile, grins lodged in each other’s skin. she, at least, is a constant presence. her perfume on the bedspread is light, warm, foreign: like vanilla and flowers and cinnamon. louis supposes, possibly, that he can see what harry sees in her. she’s a hipster in the same way that harry has become one: quirky pieces of clothing and hats skewed to the left, long legs and pink lips and lustrous hair.

 

when they’re introduced, louis cold from his walk around town in an effort to avoid just this situation, cazza says, “you’re not fucking him?” to harry like she hasn’t quite digested that.

 

harry chuckles, low and dark, sending a ripple of goosebumps down louis’ spine. his eyes are too dark, pupils too dilated for louis to actually read them, “no.”

 

“well, love,” and she is british, without a doubt, “if you need anything, i’d be bloody chuffed to help.”

 

even through his laugh, he feels the uncomfortable pull of nick. it all begins with a casual offer.

 

like a parent soothing their child, harry’s hand ends up low on her waist as he steers her away. thinking of it that way, as a parent and a child, doesn’t help at all. before they leave the room, harry turns around, eyes cast to the floor as he murmurs, “don’t wait up,” and louis wants to say _no shit, i’ve stopped that, yeah?_ He wants to ask harry why he can’t just stop running, if the bruises along his hips are from her red fingernails.

 

he doesn’t ask after either of those things. standing in the silence of the hotel room, hands curled into the sleeves of his sweater, he takes a deep breath before pulling his cell phone out of his suitcase and turning it on.

 

they’ve been in prague for a week and a half at this point, and harry has got the room for two weeks. he never stays, is probably leaving a trail of kohl colored touches on every single surface of cazza’s life. louis can’t hate him. he’s angry. angry and frustrated, but he understands needing to bury parts of yourself in people.

 

the sheer volume of missed calls and texts is overwhelming, at the very least. louis sighs, clicks out of all of them, finger trembling above nick’s number before he presses it. he should probably feel something other than sadness, than guilt: he never should’ve slept with nick to avoid the way he feels about harry.

 

“i’ve missed your rather fantastic arse.”

 

louis’ laugh is wet, fond, “hello, babe.”

 

“running away in the middle of the night like some princess, are you? i’m not much of a prince charming, regardless of how fantastic your bum would look in knickers.”

 

it’s nice, louis decides, that nick may have called and texted, but he doesn’t expect real, concrete answers. he’d be just fine shooting the bull for as long as louis needed to hear his voice. his voice softens as he says, “i know,” but it is not love, “how are you?”

 

“i’m quite busy with studies and all of that boring, mainstream school stuff, dearest lou.” he can picture nick, quiff drooping, sweats low across his hips, nursing some kind of expensive wine that louis has never heard of, curled up on their ratty, red couch, “i mean, it’s only been three weeks. i’ve not resorted to eating myself yet, if that’s what you’re after. it’s boring, to be quite honest.” he can almost hear nick’s rush to move on from that comment, “how are you, babe? out gallivanting about like some kind of sexy explorer. i’m rather fond of the image of you in a pair of those tight—”

 

louis allows himself a pleased smile, “you absolute charmer, nicholas. are you trying to get into my trousers?”

 

“please tell me they aren’t those horrible red—”

 

“you told me—”

 

“i think i miss you.”

 

frozen on the bed, picking at the pills on his frayed sweats, louis stops, “are you shit faced right now?”

 

nick laughs, breathy and almost wistful, “it’s best to confess your very real feelings to someone when you’re not sober.”

 

it’s, like. it’s like louis can’t breathe. his heart pitter patters frantically in his chest, drumming unevenly against his rib cage, and he wishes that harry were here. all of his life, he’s just been waiting for someone to come into his world and like him for him, but now, here he is, and all he can think is _where the hell is harry? i really need to call my mum._ louis rubs a hand over his face, “ni—”

 

“love.” nick sounds exasperated and comfortable and knowing. the same way he’d sound when louis woke him up with a blowjob before his early class. how appropriate, “love, love, love.”

 

“what?”

 

“you’ve never been mine, lou. i know that.”

 

“what ever are you talking about, nicholas grimshaw?” it is so much easier to force a laugh, to speak too freely, too welcomingly. he scans through his memories of the last few months with nick. louis doesn’t feel like he talked too much about harry, at least not in a way that mattered. he remembers, when things got bad and harry didn’t have school to worry about, how he’d come and crash in louis’ empty bed. long, lanky limbs, and cold feet brushing against louis’ ankle and a cold nose whispering over the ridges of his cheek. a mantra of _friends, friends, friends_ on repeat in his head as he reclaimed his empty room.

 

“that tall, mopey, curly haired hipster? cute, cuddly?” nick pauses like louis could be at all confused about who he’s talking about, “a bit like a kitten, to be frank. and when am i anything less than frank?”

 

“never,” louis says weakly.

 

there is a long silence between them. he can hear the strains of soft, melancholy music, can almost smell the bottle of burgundy wine that nick has open beside his piles of records and his books for his literature degree. somehow, without his awareness, he got to know nick better, maybe, than he knows himself, than he knows haz. his heart ripples with the thought.

 

“’m so sorry, nick.”

 

nick laughs like he does when louis puts on katy perry: exasperated, worn around the edges like an old photograph. “babe, i’m sorry. i should’ve let you be hopelessly in love with good ‘ol kitten boy.”

 

“nick—”

 

“sometimes, when you came, you’d say his name.”

 

it is something so deep, so intensely personal. louis feels like someone punched him in the gut. when did nick grimshaw, of all people, develop feelings that verge on fond and loving for him? why didn’t he know? and, above all, why couldn’t he just reciprocate?

 

louis ends the call with a tone that he hopes conveys how sorry he is. nick’s tone, gravel and rough and wet and so reminiscent of _harry,_ lets louis know that they probably won’t be friends.

 

next call, then.

 

“hello, tomlinsons! jay speaking!”

 

“mum?” louis doesn’t mean to sound so watery, so sad.

 

every sound on the other line fades out at the heaving breath that his mum lets out. she inhales, shaky and sharp, before whispering, “boo?”

 

hiccupping, wet, crying because _damn his mum for being so lovely, “_ hey, mum. i’ve missed you.”

 

she lets out a weak cry before everything on her line becomes an incoherent babbling of _oh, baby, where are you? what’s going on? anne is so worried, is harry there with you? i miss you so much, boo, i love you. the girls have been so worried._ louis doesn’t even try to answer her. he luxuriates in the normalcy of it all: her voice, her laugh at her own antics, her warm reproach while watching the golden glow of city lights outside of their window.

 

when she’s finally quieted down, louis says, “i’m in prague, mum. for the next few days, then on to the next. it’s—”

 

“is harry doing this to you?” jay asks. her voice is luminesce, warm, caring, “is he the reason you’ve gone?”

 

“mum, it’s not like that.”

 

“boo,” jay, he can hear her doing it, sets out the kettle for tea. it is what she always does, when she is settling in for a serious conversation, and the thought both soothes and scares louis. while she turns on the stove, humming quietly, louis waits, “i’m your mum.”

 

“don’t remind me.”

 

it’s worth it to hear jay’s laugh, “can we just talk about it?” her voice is like his old baby blanket: he could tell someone about every nuance, every crack in her words, but even now, older and greyer, he understands exactly what the whole thing is supposed to look like, where this conversation is supposed to go. louis can see his mum leaning against the kitchen counter, kettle completely forgotten, dark hair cascading past her shoulders in a fragrant, safe curtain.

 

“i don’t know what i’m doing anymore,” louis whispers.

 

“louis, babe,” jay is silent for a moment, “you’ve got to stop letting that boy control your life.”

 

louis chuckles, more of a gasp, and rubs a harsh hand across his eyes, “i don’t know how.”

 

“when you first introduced me to harry, i knew he was going to be trouble, love.” the kettle whistles, “no one that lovely is uncomplicated. no one as beautiful as harry is happy. you’ve got so much future ahead of you, love, and running away or whatever this is, is not the right way to deal with your fears of growing up.”

 

“his dad beat him, mum.”

 

“oh, boo. you can’t fix him. you’re just as—babe, don’t cry.”

 

louis’ trembling hands fan over his eyes as he allows himself to fall apart. this has been so much harder than he imagined it could be, every place building another wall between himself and harry, which was the opposite of what he wanted. he’s embarrassed, embarrassed that he thought that harry would just magically wake up one morning and love him. it doesn’t work like that. louis, after watching his mum and dad and his mum and his stepdad fall apart, should’ve known that.

 

“boo,” jay begins quietly, “i know you love him, babe, i know. but i need you to focus on you. what do you need, lou?”

 

“i don’t know,” he whimpers, and that’s the truth. some days, it’s harry, and other days it’s space. some times, he wishes that nick was curled around his back, obnoxious quiff drooping, other times, he wishes that he’d never gotten this close to him. he doesn’t know.

 

“i think you need to talk to him, love.” jay says.

 

and louis, like. louis is lost, and he thinks she might be right.

 

***

 

harry stumbles into the room around midnight. it is early, by his measure, but louis really hasn’t moved from his spot on the pristine, white bed in their dark wooded room. his hand, clutched around the phone, has gone white knuckled and numb, tingling up his forearm.

 

he knows that they need to talk. his mum, nick, all of it has been leading to this, to his confronting of harry. but there is a boy, a bruised looking pale boy, who walked back into the room in place of haz. there are deep shadows under his eyes and a red mark across his cheek that is matched in color only by the circles of fingerprints around his wrist. his lips are trembling.

 

and louis just can’t.

 

“hazza,” for the first time since talking to his mum, he drops his phone on the bed, “babe.”

 

“i don’t want—” harry is crouched low over his suitcase. his shoulders tremble, shake and rock his entire frame, and his large, spidery fingers spread out across his eyes as he cries softly.

 

louis rises from the bed and walks to him. tangling his fingers into harry’s curls ( _friends, friends, friends),_ he pulls the younger boy up and forward, into his neck. damp eyelashes flutter weakly against his skin before harry’s arms cocoon his waist. they are pressed flush together now, and louis can’t breathe, doesn’t know if he wants to if it means that this moment has to end. he is gentle, soothing as he brushes through harry’s knotted curls, his lips making shushing, calming noises without his consent.

 

harry snuffles, after a long time, into louis’ skin, whispers, “cazza said i was fucked up.”

 

“oh, babe,” louis tries his best not to point out that cazza didn’t ever really want to know harry. she saw what everyone sees: pale and beautiful and broken and when those cracks ran a lot deeper than she knew, she panicked. louis doesn’t blame exactly blame her, but he hugs harry closer because he would never treat his boy that way. regrets even the little yelling fight they had in france, “she’s wrong, haz. you know that.”

 

“what if she’s right?”

 

louis doesn’t even think about it, “she isn’t.  
 

“you don’t—”

 

“i know I’ve not been around as much as i should, love, and ‘m sorry, but i do know you.” he feels a deep breath being taken against his neck, “you’re my haz.”

 

“but you don’t even want me.”

 

“i was missing my mum,” louis doesn’t think about telling him that he spoke to jay and nick, “’m so sorry that i lashed out at you, babe.”

 

harry tries to get a word in again, but louis shushes him with, “then tell me, lovely.”

 

the younger boy hums, pleased. it is his favorite pet name from when they were younger. louis’d said it once, accidentally, and harry’s blush and answering beaming grin had been worth the moment of panic lodged in louis’ throat. now, he uses it as a weapon. if harry doesn’t think he understands, then fine, but he needs to explain himself. louis can’t help if he doesn’t know.

 

pulling back slightly to look at louis, harry says, “’m not trying to hurt you.”

 

“i know.”

 

“’m not trying to make you feel guilty.”

 

“haz.”

 

“i know that i’m doing all—”

 

“can you tell me, babe?” louis says, voice coaxing, “i’m not gonna leave or blame you or anything. stop worrying, hazza.” he knows that it’s easy, that he’s got the higher ground, reassurance and safety and love, but he wants to tell harry that it really doesn’t matter. that he’ll never leave. “i’m not gonna, like, leave—”

 

“can we just go to sleep?” harry rasps into his neck, and he sounds so exhausted.

 

his voice breaks around the words as he whispers, “yeah. ‘course, haz.”

 

in the minutes that follow, louis pulls his sweats off, leaving him in boxers and a tee shirt. he slips under all of the blankets of his side of the bed, throws his phone in his pile of clothes on the floor. his fists ball up into the heavy sheets, and he tries to make himself small, make himself take up less space in the fragile place that harry has claimed as his own. the younger boy, after stripping down to only his boxer briefs, slips into the bed. he’s got nail marks along his spine: the fragile bumps, the vulnerable dimples above his bottom. louis’ fingers itch to touch.

 

“can i just… can we pretend that none of this has happened?” harry’s green eyes are glassy, teeth sunk into his lower lip.

 

louis opens his arms without saying anything. harry scoots across the bed, his nose nuzzling warmly into the juncture of louis’ throat, sure and comfortable, familiar. louis burrows into his hair: letting out a sigh that makes him want to freeze in horror but ends with harry solid and snuggled up closer to his body. their legs tangle easily, louis’ smaller toes sitting heavily over the fragile, rounded bones of haz’s ankles.

 

“’m sad, lou.”

 

“shh,” he pets a hand along the ridges of harry’s spine, “we can talk about it tomorrow.”

 

“i want to go.” harry mumbles.

 

“we’ve got the room for three more days.”

 

“i don’t want to be here.”

 

“haz—”

 

“ _please.”_

“can you just… hazza, tell me something, babe.” louis scratches gently around his tense neck and shoulders, the place where his body bows in half, those crescent moon marks. cazza’s nails, “why did cazza say that to you? she’s wrong, but why did it even happen in the first place?”

 

harry snuffles wetly, shaking his head.

 

“please.”

 

lips, open and panting warmly, skip up louis’ throat. it almost feels like harry is smelling him or kissing him or something, but he can’t think that far, can’t even communicate what he needs to because this is what always happens. louis wants to know something, and harry distracts him, lips and nose and beautiful and sad.

 

“haz, stop.” louis grabs onto harry’s shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles, “stop righ—”

 

harry attempts to move out of his grasp, attempts to move out of the bed, attempts to swallow a sob, and louis just. he can’t anymore. it all happens so quickly that everything blurs: he is holding onto harry, flipping them over, resting his weight across the cradle of harry’s hips, knees on either side of him like brackets.

 

“stop it,” louis says, low and even, “i’m not trying to push you away. i’m not trying to hurt you.”

 

“lou—”

 

“listen to me, please,” louis’ voice cracks around the words, and this is all just so _dumb dumb dumb._ he’s so tired, and harry’s fingers on his hips burn. there is only so much he can do for harry if the younger boy isn’t ready to get to the root of what went wrong, get to the very center of why they skipped out of london, “it doesn’t have to, like. be tonight or anything, okay?”

 

harry’s eyes fall closed, hands squeezing tighter on louis’ waist.

 

“but ‘m worried about you.”

 

those green eyes, wide and childish and diluted, blink open to stare at him. harry’s fingers are too warm, too much, too impossibly sweet as they skate over the dips and curves of louis’ spine. harry, those insanely glassy eyes, pulls him down and tucks him under his chin, into the fragrant place near his pulse point. “i am too.”

 

 ***

 

the next day, they wake up slowly. louis takes a long moment to just watch how harry’s body moves when he sleeps. the automatic, graceful rise and fall of his chest, the starkness of his ribs. the marks that cazza left like absurd, horrible battle scars. louis remembers going to class one morning wearing a love bite from nick. he’d felt dirty, used, like a _slut,_ and he imagines that, maybe, harry feels the same way for different reasons. that maybe it’s easier for him to feel dirty than loved, because love requires opening up, but dirty requires parted lips and rolling hips and wanton moans and spread legs.

 

louis knows. knows that despite his red cheeks and complete and utter embarrassment, nothing was easier than spreading his legs.

 

with trembling fingers, louis reaches up to touch across the bruise sucked into the hollow of harry’s throat.

 

green eyes flutter open, black eyelashes casting jagged shadows on high cheekbones.

 

he literally takes louis’ breath away. whispering, careful not to shatter the calm, louis murmurs, “wanna go, hazza?”

 

***

 

at the airport, easy and pliant, harry sinks down beside him where he’s waiting on the floor and presses his entire face into the juncture of louis’ throat. the older boy hopes, however fruitlessly, that harry won’t feel the jagged throbbing of his heart, the way that heat pools predictably in his cheeks. god, he doesn’t want to love this person anymore.

 

“it wasn’t every night,” harry murmurs, low and only for him.

 

louis wants to turn to his side and smooth the furrows of harry’s forehead with his mouth. he wants to shake him and say _not in the bloody airport, you moron. i don’t want to talk about your dad messing you up in the airport._ instead, he whispers, “you don’t owe me any answers, babe. not until you’re, like. ready or whatever.”

 

“’m never gonna be ready, i don’t think.”

 

“hazza.” louis moves an insistent hand through his tangle of curls. he thinks that maybe cazza did too, but she couldn’t have possibly known how much harry loves having a finger moved over the fragile skin behind his ear, how he purrs so long and soft in his throat, “not here.”

 

“i want you to know.”

 

lowering his face so he’s speaking into harry’s hair, he whispers, “i want to hear about it, lovely boy,” he feels the catch of harry’s breath, “but not here. you don’t have to torture yourself with it right now.”

 

harry’s sigh is relief or something, but louis’ brain is stuck on harry’s caught breath. that stutter of space.

 

***

 

they land in vienna in the mid afternoon. louis feels possibility thrum through the city streets, feels it when he sees harry’s wide eyes. he’s never been to austria before, louis remembers, and it’s probably one of the most serene, picturesque places in the whole of europe. they meander through small shops and it’s perfect.

 

harry stays close to his side, fingers absently brushing past louis’ hip, his hand, circling his wrist like he isn’t even consciously thinking of the gestures. louis wants to melt into a puddle, wants to set himself on fire because there is nothing in his life that has ever felt this good, and what right does harry have to claim the fluttering in his chest, the heating of his cheeks?

 

when they finally get to a hotel, another room with just one bed and light wood floors, big windows, louis feels safe and warm. he collapses onto the white sheets, spreading his arms, moving his hips, happy and breathless as harry falls next to him. the lanky boy makes himself small, curving into his side in the space between his arm and hip.

 

“lou?” harry’s voice is tremulous, low.

 

the lights of the city filtering in through the window split harry’s face into sections of gold and black. louis looks at him and forgets how to breathe, “yeah, haz?”

 

“d’you love him?”

 

louis can’t quite think straight when he’s faced with pouted red lips and earnest, emerald eyes sparkling at him. he doesn’t think that he loved nick. he liked being with someone who could feel for him the same way that he felt about them, but nick was mostly convenient and cocky and silly. nick made louis feel good. but no. louis thinks he is very much in love with the boy in a white henley inches from the end of his fingertips.

 

“no, hazza. ‘m not really sure what love is, t’ be honest.” all he really knows about love is his dad leaving in the middle of the night and dragging a broken boy around europe in the hopes of recovering his missing pieces. “maybe when ‘m older and wiser or summat, y’ know?” he laughs in an effort to alleviate some of the weight of all of this.

 

harry stares at him, unflinching, his eyes fluttering down to his mouth, “you should be loved, lou.”

 

louis just looks at him for a long time. he wants harry to love him, wants to be able to look back on their entire life together and think about this blip and grimace slightly before moving on. but harry’s eyes are wide, watery, his lips are parted, and harry’s fingers are lying so close to his hip that he feels the electricity pulsing, alive and aware, between them.

 

“i’m sorry,” harry whispers, like he regrets saying it at all, and louis wants to crawl off of the bed and sink through the floor and go back to england. nick may not have been harry, but he was safe, “’m so sorry, lou.”

 

louis turns his head to fully look at the younger boy curled up in the small space beside him. he is pale and tired, not the same vibrant person that louis has always known, always loved. his henley shows off the sharp edges of his collarbones. there are smudges of dark ink there now, and louis is powerless against the urge to reach out and touch his index finger to the tip of a bird’s wing. he imagines both of them just leaving all of this, being able to be happy somewhere, alone, and he thinks that he’d kill for that chance now, his finger following the curve of an ethereal black wing. harry, when he finally meets his eyes, is staring at him, still, steady. eyes narrowed slightly, brown furrowed, mouth squeezed together. without thinking, louis pulls his hand away, worried that he’s done the _wrong thing._

after a few more moments of silence, harry slips out of the bed and pulls on louis’ green jacket. he doesn’t even throw a _don’t wait up_ or _bye, lou_ over his shoulder. one second, he’s grasping the door handle, the next he’s out on some random street in vienna picking up a cellist or a piano player who will understand what it is to take care of a broken, bloodied thing.

 

louis rolls over, attempts to get up and convince himself to find something to eat, but mostly, he’s exhausted. without his permission, he falls asleep on top of the blankets.

 

***

 

_“shh.”_

blinking aware, bleary, louis has no idea what’s going on. the voice is not harry’s, he knows that much. it’s too high, too sober for the hour, but the body pressed into the wood of the door, the body working its hips, letting out little wanton, keening sounds, that is definitely harry. the body currently sinking down to his knees, currently nosing along the line of what louis is positive is an erection.

 

that is definitely harry.

 

in the darkened hotel room, through slanted eyes, he really can’t see that much. the boy letting out low _oh, fuck_ s is muscular, tan and tall and he has short, buzzed hair. he is, louis thinks, probably coifed in the way that all future musicians are. his hands grip tightly into harry’s dark curls, and there’s a birthmark splattered almost purposely into the hollows created by his neck veins. he really is beautiful, in a masculine, future pop star sort of way. louis doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to see, but his eyes can’t stay away from harry.

 

harry is kneeling, lips open and probably glinting ruby, as the man above him thrusts, shallow at first, then deeper. harry doesn’t gag for the longest time, just hums low and long, one hand on the boy’s hip, the other down the front of his own pants. louis’ brain short circuits on the knowledge that harry is getting off as the man above him fucks his mouth. he thinks about the way that harry’s eyelashes are fluttering undoubtedly, the way that he is stroking himself in time with the cock in his mouth, the way he moves off the man’s cock to lick kittenishly at the head and put his arms behind his back.

 

louis isn’t so much astonished by the fact that it’s a man. harry’s never been interested in labels. what he is interested in, is the way that harry gags and chokes, the wet sound of his hand on his cock, the man above him thrusting and knocking his head back against the door like they’re actually alone in this hotel room in the middle of vienna.

 

the boy, the man, the person fucking harry’s face comes down his throat with a moan.

 

harry comes into his own pants, gasping for air and shuddering on the floor.

 

louis wants to disappear, wants to fall back asleep.

 

standing against the door, the man is all business as he puts himself away. he doesn’t even look at harry. louis’ chest is too tight, his heart pounding too hard. he could punch that boy right now in the face, and he wouldn’t feel any better right away, but no one has a right to use harry—

 

the man is chuckling, “filthy boy,” and harry is still kneeling on the floor and everything is silent and he thinks that something should have tangibly changed. something should be happening, because he just watched the boy he loves get fucked by a complete stranger in front of him.

 

in the oppressive silence, harry’s crying, regardless of how he bites against his hand to stifle the sobs, rings loud and harsh. it’s all made worse by his pants skewed on his legs, his hand in his mouth, the hunch of his neck and back.

 

louis’ eyes water, glassy and burning, as he listens to harry fall apart.

 

“haz,” his voice comes out too loud in the darkened room. he has to make a split second decision, pretend he didn’t see it, pretend this is all some kind of joke, or acknowledge it. louis has always been a coward, “i told you those damn jeans weren’t worth it.”

 

harry’s laugh sounds like he’s drowning.

 

louis waits for harry to move as the rooms shifts and strains with the tension between them, so close to breaking, always so close to something. he can’t push harry away, not after this, even if he does feel like someone punched him in the chest, _no no no._ he hasn’t even had the chance to fix what went wrong. what pushed them out of england.

 

standing, decisive and pretending that all of the pretending doesn’t make him feel sick to his stomach, louis approaches harry slowly. he’s trembling against the frame of the door, eyelashes clumped with tears. tentative, like harry is a skittish animal, louis runs a hand through the sweat damp dark curls covering the fragrant skin on the back of harry’s neck.

 

he murmurs, “come on, lovely. bed time.”

 

harry arches into the touch, nuzzling into louis’ leg, “lou—”

 

he twists his fingers into matted curls. pulling firmly, he tilts harry’s head back to expose the smooth line of his throat. he’s still got the bruises from cazza. it’s just that now, he’s got the obscene mouth and the glassy eyes and the fucked out and dumped expression to match. he still makes louis’ heart trip over itself. louis makes sure to catch and hold the young boy’s gaze as he bends down. it’s not the smartest decision. it’ll hurt like hell tomorrow, the knowledge of how much of himself he gives to harry with no returns, but for now, he presses a kiss into the frown creased lines of harry’s forehead.

 

listens to his uneven inhale, “bed, lovely.”

 

***

 

louis absolutely does not say anything about the fifty euro note he finds outside the door, on the floor. he shoves it into his pocket, collapses heavily against the wall and fights the rising tide of _good god, get me out of here, let me go back to england now, this is not how this was supposed to—_

_***_

louis is in the bathroom when he sees them. he is, admittedly, reaching for his toiletry bag so that he can leave, but then he’s staring down at bloody kleenexes in the waste basket. and it’s. it makes his heart stop. because harry doesn’t get bloody noses, and he doesn’t have to shave his face, because he’s still got baby soft skin, and there are no scrapes. louis would have seen when he took harry into the bathroom last night to wash him off gently and drop his jeans on the floor. he would have known. he jolts, physically drops the thing and turns out of the bathroom, when he finds a bloody blade along the bottom of harry’s toiletry bag, probably supposed to be better hidden.

 

louis doesn’t even really think about it. he can’t possibly leave anymore.

 

he strides out into the small hotel room, and his fingers are _white tight shaking_ around his cellphone when he digs it out from where it was stashed in his backpack. it hasn’t been on for a long time, because louis’ family only makes him feel guilty and weak, but he sees the texts from his mum anyway. how the fuck did he miss it? how the hell didn’t he realize that his best friend was hurting this badly? is it nick’s fault? did he spend so much time fucking around with nick that he didn’t even notice?

 

he settles onto the floor of the deck, dangling his feet over the side, before he calls her.

 

“louis?”

 

looking out over the greying twilight, louis allows himself to stifle a sob against his bicep. his mum must be getting concerned about the amount of crying he does when he calls her, he thinks to himself as he whispers, “hey, mum.”

 

“oh, love. where are you this time?” she mostly sounds defeated.

 

louis can’t breathe, can’t think. his mind has always been a nearly impossibly conundrum of thoughts, but now, he can’t stop the images of harry sobbing in the shower, in his room, on the side of his bed, carving up his own skin. how is he even supposed to deal with that? how is he even supposed to stop loving him now? louis blurts out, “i fucked up, mum.”

 

“boo, this isn’t—”

 

“i was, like,” louis laughs, and he isn’t imagining the hysteria that seeps into his voice. his hands are numb from clenching so tightly on the phone, and he needs his mum here right now, because no one else can calm him down from this place. no one else can possibly understand, “i didn’t even know, fuck, and he just fell apart, mum. he came to get me at uni, and i actually thought about just staying there, because, like, i didn’t sign up for this.”

 

“louis—”

 

“i can’t even see any marks!” louis yells. it might only be in his head, but he thinks that everything goes silent, for a time. the lights stop winking back at him, and the even breathing of his mum on the other line quiets, and the city freezes. the movement of cars halted, crashes seconds from happening stop, the entire world has narrowed to louis’ own guilt and panic and self hatred, sharp like a knife.

 

“louis william tomlinson. you listen to me right now.” jay sounds remarkably composed on the other end. what else was he expecting, really? he sat down at the table to come out to her when he was sixteen, and she pressed a big kiss to his forehead, asked him if he needed condoms, and offered him a cookie. it was never a big thing, but this. this is monumental, and jay is insistent as she murmurs, “if harry is hurting himself, then he needs real help, love. you are one of the most beautiful, understanding, caring people in the entire world, but you can’t fix him. you can’t give up your entire life to help this boy, lou.”

 

if only harry was _just some random boy, “_ he’s not just a boy, mum.”

 

“i know that, babe,” she sighs, “but, like, think of your dad and i?”

 

louis rests his head against the railing. his only memories of his father are feelings: warmth and contentment, but then this great void. he can’t imagine his mum having anything but fond memories, regardless of how hurt she is. the iron of the railing is cool, helps him to breathe a tiny bit easier under the panic scattering his thoughts, “what?”

 

“i really loved him, y’know?” jay’s voice cracks, delicate and worn, like she’s had this conversation with herself enough times that she has it memorized. louis wants to wrap himself up in her arms, to smell the clean, _mum_ smell of her hair, and the clinique perfume she’s always wearing along the line of her throat. “sometimes, you’re just not meant to with someone, and that’s okay, love. you move on, and you’re hurt, but you’re okay.”

 

“i don’t want to love him anymore.”

 

jay laughs, “come home, boo.” quieter still, “just… please. the girls think you’re at uni. babe, they miss you. they want to see your brother.” _i miss you, and i’m worried, and i love you._

louis wants to go home so badly, “i’m working on it, mum.”

 

***

 

someone stumbles into the room’s door at about one in the morning. there’s a weird, humming noise, and then more general scrabbling, and louis is slightly terrified to find out what’s going on. he can’t even see out the little glass thing-y. the tv continues to play quietly, louis’ heart continues to beat erratically in his ears, and he’s opening the door to a seriously blissed out harry styles. his head is resting heavily against the door jamb, eyes fluttering closed, lips wide and ruby, ruby, ruby and glistening. the way he lurches into louis, warm and solid and snuggling down into his skin, mouthing wetly at his collarbones, is all the evidence he needs really.

 

the note, scrawled hastily, is not necessary. only serves to make him madder.

 

_i’m not much of an after type of guy. hope the driver got him home safe. he’s got fifty pounds in his pocket._

louis sees red as he nudges the door closed with his foot. there is a serious koala bear attached to his body, and he needs to get this straightened out now before something bad happens. he recognizes it from nick. from dark nights and pain blooming everywhere. _subspace,_ is what he’d call it when louis would drift into some other place, untethered and plaint, loose and wanting to _touch._ he’s read articles (wikipedia counts, thank you very much), and he knows that he basically needs to love harry for as long as it takes him to come out of this state.

 

harry whines, long and low, as louis places him gently on the edge of the bed. his sweater is sitting strangely on his fragile, handle bar collarbones, and there’s a blooming red mark there. he’s been crying, louis can tell from his ebony eyelashes. louis wonders, far off and attempting not to kill that _fucking asshole,_ if harry will have marks on other places. if the man left his cum on harry like last night.

 

making a weak, frustrated sound, harry tugs louis into the triangle of flesh between his legs. he breathes heavily onto louis’ neck as the older boy attempts to figure out if a bath is necessary. his fingers wrap, firm, around the back of harry’s neck, kneading constantly at the skin so he just calms down enough to sit still. louis weighs the pros and cons, decides pretty obviously that he couldn’t just put harry in there alone. if a bath is happening, he’s committing to naked time with the boy that he loves.

 

harry snuffles against his throat, eyelashes fluttering, hands tightening on louis’ waist.

 

louis presses small, soft kisses to the top of his head. he knows that he needs to be caring, overly so, and he scritches along harry’s scalp just like he likes as he murmurs, “wanna take a bath, pretty boy?”

 

harry seems pleased with the attention. pleased enough to follow louis as he heads into the small bathroom to run water. against the dark tiled floors, harry is pale and otherworldly, washed out against the white porcelain of the tub. loose and slow, he rubs up against louis’ back, nose in his hair. thank god they even have a tub, louis thinks wildly, terrified and out of control and careening for a moment before he just breathes. who the hell leaves someone else to the “after part” of a scene? who could possibly abuse harry like this and leave him? what the actual fuck? louis flicks off the tap.

 

“come on, love.” louis whispers. he turns in the tight grasp, nudging harry’s forehead with his pointed nose so that the younger boy will lift his head up when his shirt comes off. the damage isn’t as bad as louis thought it would be, and he can only sigh in relief at that. yes, there are more bruises placed almost deliberately over cazza’s nearly healed ones, and the one hickey, but it could have been so much more permanent. harry’s head is too heavy, and it ends up back against louis’ throat as he unbuttons and slips off harry’s jeans and briefs. louis is tentative, so, so gentle and careful, as he looks down to assess.

 

harry’s cock is reddened, heavy against his stomach like he never got off. louis wants to scream when he can make out the faint imprint of what he’s sure is a cock ring. he doesn’t know what do to about that, if harry should orgasm at least once, if that’d just be fucking everything up with how sensitive he probably is. face flushed, letting out a low, ashamed mewling sound, harry’s eyes are wide and young, young, _so painfully young_ when louis meets them. he attempts to draw back into himself, his hands fluttering weakly in an attempt to cover himself and _no no no._

he isn’t sure how much harry is really computing about this moment. he realizes, belatedly, that all of this caring and loving and touching is going to feel a lot different tomorrow morning, but he murmurs, “it’s not your fault, lovely. it’s not your fault, hazza, and i’m not mad at you.”

 

that placates the boy enough that he wraps his arms around louis’ waist, snuggling up again.

 

“’m gonna check your bum now, okay?” louis thumbs over the bottom of harry’s spine. the bumps there are like rocky waves tossed against the shore, cresting and falling, fragile and beautiful in the spaces between. harry nods meekly, fingers too harsh on louis’ side, breathing ragged and labored.

 

he is cautious and predictable, keeps a hand firm along the jut of harry’s absurdly curved hipbone. the skin of his bum is definitely raw, maybe not bleeding now, but louis can feel the ridges of scratches that probably did bleed. even as harry whimpers against his neck, irrational anger surges up in his throat. he goes taut with it, so pissed at this stranger who took advantage of harry’s willingness, his vulnerability and beauty.

 

harry seems to sense it, tries to pull away again.

 

“hey, beautiful boy, no,” louis moves his hands totally off of harry’s bum. he’s felt enough. “’m not mad at you, never mad at you.” it is _stupid stupid stupid_ but he lets harry press a kiss to his mouth. his stomach goes into free fall, his heart clattering to a near stop in his chest. his hands hook around harry’s waist as he pulls back, tentative. this can’t be happening right now, he isn’t prepared for this too. harry’s jade eyes flicker open, drunk looking almost, and trusting. louis closes his eyes so he can just think. good god, he’s fucked. moving a hand into harry’s hair, he tugs their mouths back together, gentle and knowing. they stay like that, pressed close and trading chaste kisses, open mouthed and breathing each other’s air, for a long time. harry mewls like a wounded animal. louis doesn’t allow himself to really look at the heart of the issue. it feels dirty enough to steal things like this from him when he’s just been dumped after subbing, but harry is cognizant, if a little hurt, wounded and fuzzy from not cumming.

 

after a time that louis can only measure using the swollen red skin of harry’s mouth, he’s puling back. hands firm along harry’s waist, he chides the lanky, bruised looking boy into the bath. harry is clumsy, fumbles, slips down into the water, and louis is almost thankful for that. at least it is noise to break the silence. harry lets out a content sigh as his head lolls back against the ledge. louis pretends that he could possibly ignore the abused looking cock resting against harry’s flat stomach.

 

“the water alright?”

 

“’s so good,” harry slurs.

 

louis, looking out at the darkness blanketing the city, numbly removes his clothes. harry doesn’t really seem to be suffering any ill effects besides exhaustion, and like, duh. he hasn’t spent a night sleeping since they started this mess a month ago. it still stings that they’re here: louis tamping down the thing inside of him that loves harry so much in order to effectively care for him after some other asshole hurt him. he almost wonders, but could never possibly say, if harry searches out men who remind him of his dad. if even though it hurts, it’s familiar.

 

he folds himself up as small as he can on the other side of the bathtub. harry watches him get in, a dopey smile on his face, before he is kneeing across the space between them, sinking into the place between louis’ legs to bury his face, his ridiculous curls, into louis’ neck again, and louis wants to ask him why, if he thinks it’s safer to not look at someone while you break them into unrecognizable pieces, but he doesn’t have the heart. hell, he doesn’t even have nick to fuck some sense into him anymore.

 

louis settles his hands down low on the line of harry’s hips. he imagines what this could be like in any other situation. how harry would look reclined against the dark blue pillows on his bed, same artless, knobby knees as when he was younger, but the same older colors as now. same tight jeans and loose sweater and warm hands and trusting eyes. louis thinks, with a pang, that he could imagine this in the little flat he shares with nick on the couch, on the kitchen counter, on his bed. his thumbs move, rhythmic and small, over the slanting bone, feeling the even paced thumping of harry’s heart.

 

“wanna get clean, pretty boy?” louis keeps his voice low and soft, careful not to startle harry from his even breathing. the city keeps shining back at him like a promise from outside the windows as harry nods, “alright.”

 

he suds’ up the washcloth in front of harry. the soap is lemon and thyme, probably the most masculine thing that harry has ever been scrubbed with, and if the situation didn’t suck so much, louis might give him shit for that. as it is, he moves the white flannel over harry’s loose shoulders and down his arms, to his long, elegant fingers. they clench and unclench on the rim of the tub as he squirms lightly against louis. the older boy vows, resolutely, to ignore the fact that harry’s bum is soft, so close to his cock, so close to where he wants it. down his chest, over his jumping stomach, absurdly gentle as he sweeps it over the head of harry’s cock.

 

the younger boy moans like someone pulled it from his chest, “lou.”

 

and it’s, like. he’s already in this far, “what do you need, lovely?”

 

“’m so sore,” he slurs, “’m sensitive. he didn’t let me—” harry hiccups on a little sob.

 

“none of that,” louis chides. the washcloth has officially been dropped into the water. this is the most intimate louis has, arguably, ever been with anyone. if he was going to be with nick, the lights had to be off, and he had to be at least partly covered by the sheets. but here’s harry, spread out and ashamed and crying, and louis thinks about his heart swelling in his chest, his breathing deep and stuttering when harry opens his mouth against lou’s collarbone, whispers _i wanna come, it hurts, lou._

his fingers form a solid, languid cuff around the stiffness of harry’s manhood. he goes slow, all firm touches against his ball and his loose hole, listening as harry keens in the back of his throat, ignoring the knowledge of his own arousal as he kisses harry’s forehead, his moans so, so hurt sounding.

 

“lou—”

 

“i know,” he murmurs, lips moving against harry’s forehead, hand speeding up on his cock, “i know you’re hurting, love, but just come once. it’ll be better then, y’know that. god, hazza.” louis voice breaks, he rolls harry’s balls in his hand, sneaks a single finger down to his entrance from behind. harry rocks back on it, back arched, body pulled taut, stretched and ready to break. louis wants him to shatter. “’m so sorry about this, baby. that man is terrible, and you don’t go back to him ever.” harry shudders as louis slips in another finger, uneven breathes, “you need to be taken care of, beautiful boy, not choked and hit,” his own voice trembles as he pleads, “stay here with me. be mine.”

 

harry chokes off a sob as he comes into the bathwater, body bowing under the weight of it.

 

***

 

ten minutes later, after harry has stopped crying and shaking and mewling, he goes to crawl out of the tub, and louis, standing behind him to help, sees them. marked into the vulnerable, pale skin of his inner thigh like soldiers lined up to go to war, tally marks from all of the nights he couldn’t talk to louis.

 

louis nearly sobs under the weight of it. his fingers go white on the bathtub rim.

 

some are red, angry and new looking, some are faded, just raised white scars, and louis, like. louis needs to break the surface for air, or he’s going under with this boy.

 

 ***

 

the grey light in vienna is unlike anything louis has ever seen when it hits harry’s face. some time during the night, the younger boy tugged him into the circle of his embrace, and louis doesn’t feel strong enough to fight his own feelings this morning. he allows himself this, at least, after not sleeping so much or so well last night. with halted movements and wondering eyes, he traces across the furrowed place between harry’s eyebrows, the deep purple bags carved out in the hollows above his cheekbones.

 

from his vantage point under harry’s chin, louis wonders if he could possibly get a better look at those scars, but even the thought makes him want to throw up. he’s been such a horrible, senseless friend. unable to deal with his own life, unable to help harry, unable to love nick right, unable to make his mum proud. louis bites his lower lip against the whimpering sound he wants to make. maybe this time he can be the one to propel them into moving.

 

maybe, louis needs to get harry out of this country, out of this place with this man who obviously doesn’t care enough about him. who thinks he’s a male stripper. maybe this can be the first thing he’s done right in a long, long time. maybe he could—

 

louis looks down at harry’s deeply sleeping face, weighs the chances, and scoots delicately out of his arms. harry makes a tiny, disgruntled noise, grasping at the warmth of louis’ torso as he goes to sit up, but the blue eyed boy escapes his fingers. for a long moment, he stares down at harry’s hands: long, pale fingers, slightly dirty under some nails, but unmistakably harry, all the same. he leans down, breath ghosting over them, before he presses kisses to the tip of each one. his thumb, the sensitive webbing of his palm stretched up to his index finger and that one too, his middle finger, his ring finger, his pinky, tiny and silly, almost, and then, to the warm, wide space of his palm.

 

harry rolls over to him, curves around the absurd bowing of his lower back. he’s always hated that. hated how feminine it looks, how lady like it made him feel. and, it’s just. louis isn’t asking for fire works or _bodies possessed by light_ and _together forever._ he doesn’t want poetry or heroism or insanity, he just wants to quietly love this boy. in this moment, feeling harry snuffle up against the bare skin of his bum, he thinks that love might be something like this. the urge he has to lean back against harry and let himself sink into that. sink into him.

 

he can’t do that right now. louis stands up from the bed slowly, careful to tuck a pillow into harry’s arms, and walks over to the suitcases. there, he tugs out a cream colored cardigan that harry wears when he needs comfort, when he needs home and briefs. louis thinks he could use some home, right about now, as he finds his cell phone.

 

slowly, quietly, he walks out to the balcony. the weather is slightly chilly, and louis thinks that he should probably have brought a blanket as he sinks onto the chair today. he makes himself comfortable. takes a long, deep breath before he calls.

 

“hello? may i ask who’s calling?”

 

louis has to swallow the panic clawing up his throat before he can say, “hey, anne.”

 

the other woman lets out a sound that is definitely, of course, so, so alike harry. she claps a hand over her mouth, a sob tearing out of her throat. “oh my god.” she whispers, over and over, “oh my god, lou. oh my god, is harry with you? is he okay? oh my go—”

 

and louis thinks that he’s pretty strong most of the time. he fancies himself pretty good at dealing with crying women, but anne is a whole different thing. he looks out over the misty morning before he says, “harry is okay, anne. he’s okay, i promise.”

 

anne snuffles, “i’ve fucked up quite majorly with him.”

 

“no,” louis clenches a hand in his sweater, “you did, like, what you could, and i think he understands that. haz isn’t really good at grudges, you know?” he wants to say _we all did. we all fucked up._ “’m so sorry it’s taken so long for me to call. i should’ve let you—”

 

“i knew he was with you.” anne whispers, “i knew he’d go to you.”

 

“anne—” _no no no, not now, no._

“he really does care about you.”

 

“anne—”

 

“give him my love, will you?”

 

louis just stays silent and still, wills the thing that is so, so alive in his chest to settle.

 

“i’m so thankful to you, louis. i am so thankful that you love my boy. i need to go now, but i love you. i love both of you, and i’m so sorry.”

 

the line disconnects, and louis spends a really long time, too long really, staring at the screen on his phone ticking down the time he’s spent talking to anne.

 

harry comes up to the glass door, and louis thinks he might give anything to see this on a daily basis. his eyes are droopy and sweet, half-mast in his exhaustion, and he looks fucked out and pliant still, sleep warm. the comforter is draped around his shoulders, pulled tight into his chest so all louis can see are swallows and a butterfly and collarbones. harry opens the door slowly, watching louis with wide, puzzled eyes, before he is standing right there. tall and pale, but somehow small, somehow every bit the boy that louis loves so, so much.

 

it’s like all those days ago when he murmurs, “can we pretend that none of this—”

 

“god, yes.” it’s strange how this morning he gets tugged up and then back down into the warm cocoon of harry’s big, white blanket, and how he doesn’t fight it. he just breathes out, finally allowing himself to nuzzle into the milky, smooth place where harry smells so much like himself on his neck. it’s not worth it anymore, pretending that he doesn’t want this beautiful boy or mornings like these or the way that harry’s huge hands feel settled against his hips. he does want this. he wants this so much.

 

breathing into louis’ flat hair, the younger boy says, “’s none of my business, but—”

 

“anne.” louis kisses his neck once as he feels hands tighten on his waist.

 

harry goes completely still beneath him.

 

to compromise with what he really wants, louis curls his tiny, tan hands into the spaces between harry’s. their fingers look good together, locked and warm and heartbeats pattering in their wrists. it feels normal, nice, to do this, to go back to their a little bit more than a friendship. “listen to me, okay?”

 

above him, harry nods meekly.

 

louis can’t look him in the eyes. instead, he settles his head onto the strength of harry’s broad shoulder. “i saw the cuts, hazza.”

 

harry’s thumb sweeps, rhythmic, over louis’ wrist. his breathing out of sync, his heart speeding.

 

“i was never trying to hurt you. i don’t—nick happened, and i was dumb and i left you alone, when i should’ve been there for you. and, you, like, showed up at my flat, and this whole time, i thought we were just shooting the shit about it, just, like, messing around. and you wanted to leave, and i wasn’t ready, and i’m so sorry for yelling at you.”

 

a small sound of protest from between harry’s peony lips.

 

“’m not blaming you for this. my problems are, literally, all my fault.” louis laughs half heatedly and achingly self conscious and terrified of saying the wrong thing, “but i need you to stop hurting yourself, hazza. it’s not something that you—” louis chokes on his own words, “i can’t lose you, hazza. i can’t see you hurting, and i won’t lose you.”

 

“why?” harry is nosing along the side of louis’ head.

 

it’s not the time. not now, not this morning, not with the picture of those marks still so fresh in louis’ mind, but he whispers, “i really do care about you, haz. ‘m just bad at it. bad at loving people right.”

 

“you shouldn’t love me.” harry murmurs. he’s still snuggled around louis’ body, warm and solid, but he trembles slightly.

 

louis’ sense of self preservation is seriously nonexistent this morning, because he whispers, “too late for that.”

 

harry, small, meek, presses a kiss to his forehead.

 

***

 

later that night, harry is tugging on a black tee shirt when louis comes out of the bathroom wet and too warm. he wants to believe that, after last night, harry could possibly be smarter than this. there are still bruises riding low on his spine and nail marks curved along his waist. why the hell would he go back out? louis, like. he knows he has no right to be making life decisions for harry, that love really is a small, inconsequential thing, but he can’t stand to think of the younger boy in some seedy night club allowing himself to be used for some crazy, blood play or something and coming back tonight, bruised and broken worse than ever.

 

before he can tell himself to stop being so _impulsive_ and _stupid_ and _weak,_ louis is saying, “don’t go out tonight.”

 

harry’s green eyes fly to him, small and scared against the wall by the bathroom.

 

awkward under the attention, louis goes to his suitcase and tugs on some briefs. he stands facing the wall so he doesn’t have to see the strange, unsettling look in harry’s eyes as he attempts to breathe normally. he shouldn’t have to be harry’s mum. he shouldn’t have to tell him to avoid going out after he was kicked out of someone’s house without aftercare. this is wrong, this is stupid, and louis could actually—

 

a pair of large, pale hands settle low along his waist. louis’ mouth goes dry, his blue eyes closing tightly. they are right above the line of his boxer briefs and can span his entire waist almost. only harry, he thinks wistfully, only harry can make him feel strong and masculine and protected at the same time. even when he’s face to face with harry’s chest, he doesn’t open his eyes.

 

louis is totally unprepared for the lips on his bare shoulder.

 

harry’s tongue is light, ticklish almost, and he drags it up louis’ neck vein, tasting the hammering of his pulse and the clean, ocean smell of his soap. “did you mean it?”

 

“haz—” but even louis can hear how close to a whine he sounds. how close to a moan. his hands ball into fists.

 

lips touch his once, twice. “please, lou?”

 

and louis doesn’t understand. he doesn’t understand why his best friend is constantly acting like he’s a lot more than that, and he doesn’t understand why harry hasn’t called his mum in a month, and he doesn’t understand why nick grimshaw is suddenly so kind. he doesn’t understand what harry wants. he isn’t sure why his heart is attempting to flee his chest. he doesn’t understand why distractions for harry are always so physical, so emotional, so raw. he doesn’t understand why his heart feels like an open wound, like someone poured salt into it and is watching him squirm.

 

so he says yes.

 

harry kisses like he’s drowning. he kisses like he’s on fire, like he needs to douse it in someone else’s skin. he touches like he wants to be hurt, lifts louis like the older boy weighs absolutely nothing to crush them against the wall together, too close, too hot, chests heaving. harry kisses down his neck, across his collarbone, and louis wants _needs_ to touch.

 

but when he goes to, harry takes both of his wrists in one hand and shoves them back against the wall. they are aligned, totally, louis’ wide blue eyes locked on harry’s sad green eyes. and it’s. it’s a lot, the way that harry is so bare, so broken, so completely ready to fall apart, and how louis feels so acutely the need to touch but doesn’t, how he lets harry kiss his neck and his collarbone, how he lets harry take them to the bed.

 

harry’s skin is as milky as louis always imagined it was. he shucks his black shirt with huge, clumsy fingers and is back within the cage of louis’ legs before the older boy has a chance to ask for it. at first, harry merely stares down at him: opened eyed, open mouthed. louis can feel his heart beating in his throat, in his cheeks, in his cock.

 

this time, harry treats him like he’s the breakable one. their lips meet softly, a million times, as harry’s hands slide down to his waist. one hand goes under his boxers, grasps onto the warmth of his hip, as the other skims back up his chest, rubbing over his nipples until louis has to pull back from the kiss to breathe, to shudder, to gasp.

 

harry doesn’t bother taking his boxers all the way off, he just slides them until they’re under louis’ arse cheeks, drawn tight around his thighs, and harry’s got huge hands. he’s got enormous hands and long fingers, and louis thinks he could cum just from riding them, but harry isn’t going to make him do that. harry wraps a dry hand around his cock, and louis hides his face in harry’s shoulder, whimpering like he’s aching with it, and he is.

 

they rock together, harry’s hand on his cock, louis choking out small noises, quiet and fearful that he could scare harry away. and when harry gets a hand around his balls, rolling them softly, lips moving against louis’ hair, louis murmurs a quiet _oh, fuck yes, hazza._

harry is hard against his thigh, big and thick, which only spurs louis on. he arches his back, sweaty hair on his forehead, and watches harry watching him with hooded, blackened eyes.

 

“come on, babe.” harry mutters, shifting them.

 

louis, slow with arousal, has no idea what’s happening, but he scoots onto harry’s lap anyway. he feels like he’s been run over with a truck: eyes hooded, hair in his face, sitting astride a definitely aroused harry styles as the younger boy slips a hand under his cock and balls, spit slick, and pushes in knuckle deep.

 

louis gasps, groans, his eyes roll back as he leans forward. harry’s still got his jeans on, and as he rocks back and forth on the single finger, he finds the friction is good: just rough enough to burn a little bit, harry’s lips just bitten enough to distract him from the fluttering of his eyelashes. then, another finger that harry scissors. it’s bliss, is what it is. louis can’t control himself as he attempts to start working up to a rhythm, harry’s fingers so dangerously close to exactly where he wants him. his hands, absently, move up to his own nipples, tweaking them, as harry wraps a hand around the back of his neck to haul him into a kiss.

 

louis can’t kiss, can’t even breathe. he just pants warmly into the space between them, body taut with tension, whispering _i need your cock, hazza, please, god, please fuck me, please._ it’s okay to beg in this space, and harry obliges him.

 

harry props louis against his legs, holds his arse cheeks as louis attempts to sink down onto a spit and precome slicked cock. it burns, it hurts, and louis whimpers, tossing his head back. but then.

 

“oh my god.” louis murmurs. he swivels his hips, arse rubbing harshly back over the zipper of harry’s jeans as he grinds filthily. it is so good like this, harry is big and warm, presses tantalizingly over his prostate while louis rubs himself off on harry’s jeans, harry’s eyes closed tight, his lips forming a litany of _lou, lou, fuck, fuck, lou._

 

jerking his hips up, catching louis off guard, the younger boy grasps louis’ wrists in his hand to hold them behind his back. then, he starts to fuck louis in earnest. the older boy can only squirm and moan and fall apart, completely unable to control the way he starts begging for it, starts begging to come, starts begging to touch. harry just sits up against the headboard, close and knowable, louis’ wrists in one of his huge hands, fucking into him, deep and harsh and biting.

 

when louis opens his eyes to look at harry, he finds the boy’s green eyes already focused too intently, too closely on his face. it makes him flush, makes his balls draw up threateningly, makes his arse clench around harry’s cock.

 

it aches, is the thing, this slow falling apart. louis wants harry to know what it is to feel broken like this, so in love you’re in pieces.

 

and good god, does harry shatter. he comes apart into a million pieces and louis’ fingers are sticky with glue, but he doesn’t care. he doesn’t care because he’s whispering _i love you i love you i love you_ and harry’s eyes are wide, glassy, intent.

 

***

 

when louis wakes up at three in the morning to a boy who smells like winter air and his own cologne for the first time in a long time, he tries to close his eyes and roll over. he regrets what he said while he was coming, regrets how red his eyes probably are right now and how sore his entire body is.

 

harry’s fingers, pale and gentle, coax back the fringe on his forehead, “babe.”

 

louis is heavy with it, with his sadness. he feels like someone has punched a hole in his chest. “can we pretend—”

 

“love.” harry tugs him, warm warm so warm, onto the solid, alive, ink stained plane of his chest. louis tucks his head right up, into the place where he has always wanted to measure harry’s pulse with his tongue, and he breathes evenly. harry’s hands slide gently down his spine, settle firmly onto his lower back. “look at me.”

 

louis rests his chin on harry’s sternum.

 

harry’s green eyes flicker from his eyes down to his lips, stay there. stutter back up to his eyes. “lou, do you want to go?”

 

***

 

louis allows himself to be led, pliant and sleepy, through the airport and back to paris. there, his mum has a flat in the middle of the city. jay always loved paris, and she taught louis the same. he loses himself in the lights and the smells and the sounds, loses all of the bad parts of himself because he can’t possibly feel bad while he’s under a blanket of golden lights and stars.

 

the flat that they have is all light wood and open. there’s a bed, in the master, on the floor, and windows from floor to ceiling that lead out to the deck. louis loves it, and now that jay knows what he’s doing, where he is, he doesn’t think she’d mind too much if he stayed there. he feels like all of his worries have room to spread out, to become smaller when they linger in the darkened corners of the rooms.

 

but harry still has cuts on his thighs. louis still wants to talk about it more, wants to apologize for how much he loves him. he gives them four days. gives them four days to find their way back to london, to their parents, to their lives and their responsibilities. he can’t keep running away.

 

***

 

on the first day, harry brings him breakfast in the big white bed on the floor. louis is still tired, still hurting from the night before, still reeling from the fact that he’s actually said that he loves harry out loud, but he smiles softly, letting the sheets puddle into his lap.

 

he feels self conscious, maybe, deep down, but the fruit is so good, and he can’t even begin to think straight while harry’s bare chest stares at him from only about two feet away. it, foolishly, feels like it could be a fresh start here. louis wonders why because their baggage is a constant, always has been.

 

in the sun, harry looks like an angel or a model or something. his hair isn’t really just brown: it’s shot through with lighter strands and darker streaks, and louis knows that it’s soft, smells like winter and home. his lips are cherry this morning from being kissed, and the cigarette smoke bags under his eyes are more like bruises, but he’s still beautiful. maybe even more so, because he got louis to this place all on his own.

 

“you’re staring,” harry murmurs quietly, focused intently on the orange between his mammoth fingers.

 

louis shrinks back into himself, “god, ‘m so—”

 

“hey,” harry’s skin always looks so pale and fragile against his. he wonders if he could ever tire of seeing the lilac veins spread across the back of his hand, where all of them converge on his wrist. maybe harry tastes like winter there: like the frigidness of snow and the sharpness of air that cuts through all of your clothes, no matter how many layers. “lou, stop. ‘s not a big deal.”

 

“’m sorry for making it, like,” but it isn’t. things are fine between them, if a little groggy and sleep fuzzy around the corners, “awkward.”

 

“lou. louis—” harry looks up at him, finally head on. he doesn’t look scared or pissed. he mostly looks tired, weary, like he could possibly be feeling the same exhaustion that louis is, and that feels, even just a little, like winning, “what happened last night, lou?”

 

there aren’t necessarily words for that. all louis has is feelings like a gnarled ball twisted inside of his chest, the jealously, the pain, the confusion, the knowledge of his own words, his own actions, and the horror at watching harry after that man hurt him, the terror at seeing those cuts and the helplessness that is so potent it burns. louis tugs the white sheet back up over his heaving chest, shakes his head, “hazza—”

 

“you kinda freaked? like, ‘m not stable, but, that was.”

 

“’m not ready to talk about this.”

 

“lou.” harry’s eyes narrow, his lips turn down into a frown, “’m not trying to like. make fun of you, but i want to know, so it doesn’t happen again. so i can stop—”

 

“you want to stop it?” louis’ laugh tastes bitter in his throat. god, he hates this. why the hell can’t they figure this out? shaking his head, attempting to stem the flow of words by biting his lip, louis whispers, “fuck you. all this time, ‘ve been right here. i’ve followed you so you could, literally, fuck your way around europe. which.” louis shrugs like it means nothing that harry is closing in on himself, like the words aren’t shards of glass as they rip through his throat, “which fucking sucks. you get hurt, you come home to me, and i fix it, because ‘m not good for much else, huh, haz? a quick kiss when you’re feeling down, a quick fuck when you’ve been hurt—”

 

“you didn’t—”

 

“i did!” louis yells. and god, does it feel good to get angry. “i always do! and you always leave me, again and again, harry!”

 

“i’ve got, like, stuff—”

 

it feels pathetic to be crying again. like, actually choking on his own tears as he buries his face in the white sheet, but what else is there? he’s let nick and his mum and his sister and himself and harry down. he couldn’t even save them from this inevitable crash, and his heart constricts as he says, “i saw them, haz. i saw the bloody marks, and you know that.”

 

harry’s eyes go too wide, too glassy.

 

“and thanks for, like, telling me. you need a shrink, haz!” louis’ throat closes around the next sob, “stop fooling yourself into needing me!”

 

“what the hell do you know about me, lou?” harry gets out of bed, absolutely butt naked, and goes to their suitcases. he slams his own onto the desk, rips the lid open, “what’ve you actually done for me? fuck you too, lou. fuck you for saying that you love me. fuck you for not meaning it!”

 

louis just hides his face and cries and cries and prays that this will all end.

 

“you didn’t want to be uni anymore than i wanted to be in holmes chapel with my dad. you volunteered! just say no next time. save us the trouble, yeah?”

 

and he’s always been so beautiful. even wild, even sad, even with tears tracing paths down his white cheeks. the cream jumper, louis’ this time, is almost too small on him, and his dark jeans should make it impossible to breathe.

 

“why did you tell me you loved me if you just wanted to leave?”  harry yells.

 

louis looks up. thinks _why didn’t you say it back?_

“why does everyone just want to leave?”

 

and then he’s gone, and louis is sitting in a big, white, cold bed and crying.

 

***

 

the second day hardly counts.

 

it’s eleven and louis is sitting on the counter in the kitchen nursing a mug of tea because he hasn’t eaten a thing all day. mostly, he’s paced and debated calling anne or jay or even nick or the police and he tried to play the big, grand piano in the corner but his fingers trembled around the fear that harry would never come home. or worse, that he’d come home smelling like someone else.

 

when harry comes in the door at eleven fifteen in the night, almost the third day, louis nearly falls off the counter in relief. he feels a bit silly, wearing harry’s pajama pants and his _hipsta please_ jumper, but the fond, small smile on harry’s face is all worth it.

 

for a long moment, they look at each other, harry from the doorway and louis from the counter. harry is tired looking, paler than normal, but looks like he was probably born bathed in moonlight. anne probably took him out, when he was just born, and held him up to the moon and made some sort of promise so that harry could hold that ethereal, almost pale light under his skin. louis would hate him if he wasn’t coming to stand in the triangle of flesh between his always too fat thighs, his thumbs rubbing rhythmically over louis’ hips under the jumper and under his pajama pants.

 

they are so close that they are breathing the same air.

 

as louis draws his fingers wonderingly, haltingly across the skin of harry’s neck, buries his fingers in those dark curls he loves so much, places the younger boy’s head on his shoulder, he figures the truth is the best place to start, “missed you, hazza.”

 

harry snorts a wet laugh, “’m a serious dick to you, and you tell me you miss me. lou,” but his voice is fond. cracks in the right place to make louis hug him that little bit tighter.

 

“hush you. ‘m having a mo.”

 

“cazza was right.”

 

louis turns himself so he is breathing in the fragrant, completely memorable scent of harry’s hair. when he speaks, harry’s eyelashes dance against his skin. he strokes, just like harry likes, over the soft, fragile, delicate skin behind his ears, making the younger boy melt, “no.”

 

“’m so fucked up, lou. ‘m not even good for me, sometimes.”

 

“is that all you’ve got?” he asks, tremulous and sarcastic, because this feel. this feels like he might, finally, please god, be getting what he wants.

 

“’m not a good person.”

 

“you are one of the best people,” louis’ own conviction scares him.

 

“for you, lou. ‘m not good for you.”

 

pulling harry’s head back from his neck, he looks carefully at the younger boy’s face and feels how slow his thumbs are sweeping over his warm skin. and, really, this is one of the best people for him. they’ve been friends for so long, more for a little while, and they are not perfect, because this isn’t some tv show, this is real life. he might hurt louis, but he’s the only one who sticks around to curl up in his arms afterward. he’s the only one who comes back, and that. that means the world. louis strokes a thumb over the trapped skin of harry’s lower lip, watching him release it from between his teeth.

 

“’s too late. i already love you.” louis whispers.

 

harry grins, and his dimples are on his cheeks, and louis’ heart hurts with how much he wants this.

 

“’m not good at this stuff.” harry whimpers when louis leans in, pressing a soft, closed mouth kiss to his pouted lips just because he can, “’m not good at emotional, coupley stuff. i get all, like. stutter-y and awkward, and like—”

 

this time, when he tangles his fingers in harry’s hair and kisses him, the younger boy surges forward. they kiss open mouthed and gentle, then firm and tongues and louis could never get used to this. harry tastes like new things, like possibility, and okay, they aren’t going to magically get better, but they could heal each other, and as louis smiles, silly and crinkle eyed, up at harry’s matching grin, he thinks that, yeah. this is good.

 

harry presses kisses to his eyebrows, to his eyelids, to the sharp point of his nose, to his cheeks, to his forehead. louis giggles, holds on tightly to his neck.

 

can barely breathe when harry whispers, “’m not—please don’t go.”

 

louis tries to speak.

 

“please, please don’t leave me. lou, don’t go, don’t—” it’s a quiet litany, and it sounds like it must hurt to admit how scared he is. but he’s in louis’ arms now, he’s louis’ now, and everything is different. everything could get better now. louis tugs his face forward, into the juncture of his throat until his words are low, fervid whispers against louis’ warm skin.

 

“’m not going anywhere, love.” louis finally presses into his hair, into his eyelids, into his nose.

 

harry chokes slightly on his own tears before he’s crying and saying, “’m so sorry it took me so long to say it. ‘m so sorry. lou, lou, god lou, i love you.”

 

***

 

the third day passes in that large, white bed. they sleep. they feed each other. they talk. they kiss. they call their mums.

 

it’s better than okay.

 

***

 

the fourth day, louis hauls them into the city like normal person. he tells a laughing harry that he refuses to be a kept woman, refuses to be a sex slave, and harry’s eyes go dark, appraising. all louis can do is shudder.

 

later, as the city glows golden through the floor to ceiling windows, sitting in the darkness of the bedroom, drinking burgundy wine, louis spills some down his neck when he’s laughing. his knees are touching harry’s, and the younger boy is suddenly silent, focused. it trails, wet and viscous, down his chin, over his neck, into the pool of his collarbone.

 

harry, dark eyed and beautiful in his white henley, leans across the space between them. he kisses louis’ mouth, long and wet, open mouthed, before he grins. a hand on the back of louis’ neck, he leans down. harry’s tongue is warm, methodical, as he licks over the pulse seesawing between _so in love_ and _so turned on_ in his neck, bites down on his adam’s apple as louis lets a moan leave his lips, doesn’t have to fight it anymore. he grasps harry’s shoulders to ground himself, to help himself breathe, as harry curls his tongue into the hollow of louis’ collarbone, finally getting the wine. he kisses, licks, soft and harsh, leaves a purpling mark, and louis doesn’t, couldn’t possibly, feel dirty.

 

he pulls back to smirk, all swollen lipped and blown eyes, and whispers, “’s like i could get drunk on you.”

 

louis thinks _i’m wasted. i’m absolutely drunk on everything about you._

they make love, and it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t burn, doesn’t leave pain in its wake. it doesn’t ache.

 

***

 

they walk into heathrow with their hands clasped. louis isn’t an idiot. he knows this isn’t going to fix anything, and that there are some things, big and small, that they need to talk about. their mums are crying, holding hands, and maybe. it’s hope, isn’t it, and he doesn’t worry so much about harry, because harry smiles at him like he is the entire world, like sunshine is embedded beneath his skin, and louis thinks that he could be that.

 

louis thinks that he could be harry’s sunshine, if he needed.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from the poem Patagonia by Kate Clanchy. It's in the last couple of stanzas. "I meant empty skies aching blue. I meant years. I meant all of them with you."


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